


Mon Petit Soleil

by spatialsoloist



Series: The Laws of Life [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, M/M, Reincarnation, Romance, Sous Chef!Jean, TA!Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are my sunshine, the only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are grey. You never know dear, how much I love you.</p><p>Please don't take my sunshine away.</p><p>Reincarnation AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Petit Soleil

**Author's Note:**

> Marco and Jean are reincarnated into modern day Cannes, France, as a TA at the local university and a sous chef respectively. They live together, and while neither of them remember their past Jean is constantly mothering and way too protective of Marco.
> 
> He can’t help it. He just doesn’t know why he feels as though he’s lost him once already, and he’d do anything in his power to never let him go again.
> 
> Popping my SNK cherry with this fic. This has a happy ending, I promise! Thank you for reading.

There are two stacks of papers on Marco’s desk. The ones on his right are the test papers that he’s done marking, and the pile on his left are the ones that have yet to be read. The pile on the left remains considerably higher than the one on the right, even after three hours’ worth of work.

 

That might be because of Jean, though.

 

“Are you ever going to leave me alone for longer than twenty minutes?” Marco demanded, before his partner could even open his mouth after busting into the room for the fifth time already. “I’m serious. I have seventy assignments to mark by Friday and at this rate I’ll be finished in a _month_ , if I’m lucky.”

 

“I just wanted to see if you needed any help,” Jean muttered sulkily, stalking into the study to slap a plate of cookies onto Marco’s desk. “It can’t be healthy to sit at a desk all day. Blood clots are really dangerous, you know? What if—”

 

“I need to get up to pee too, you know,” Marco pointed out with a small smile. “And you know once you start making that roasted pumpkin soup I like so much I’ll find my way downstairs eventually.”

 

“How did you know I was going to make the pumpkin soup?” Jean exclaimed. It was supposed to be a surprise. Marco rolled his eyes.

 

“There’s a giant pumpkin sitting on the floor in our kitchen, and it’s already November. Halloween is long past, you idiot.”

 

“Oh— right,” Jean mumbled, cursing his own stupidity. “Well, make sure you get up at least once every five minutes! I’ll know if you didn’t! I can hear the floor creak when you get up to walk!”

 

“Now you’re just being creepy.”

 

“I’m concerned! There is a big difference!”

 

Marco laughed, which was a beautiful sound, but with the golden light of the evening sun streaming through the window and illuminating the sprinkles of dust floating in the room, Jean felt a sudden jolt of irrational fear shooting through him.

 

Suddenly, the sunlight seemed to highlight splotches of red, like blood, and the dust felt like suffocating debris, wafting along with the scent of death in the air.

 

“Just go make dinner, Jean,” Marco said gently, jolting the cook out of his thoughts. “I’ll be finished in an hour, okay?”

 

Jean nodded and left reluctantly, not trusting himself to speak. The fear had vanished as quickly as it had come, and he chose not to dwell on it.

 

He made the pumpkin soup extra quickly, though, just so he could lure a hungry Marco down a little earlier for supper.

 

+

 

Jean owns a little blue car with a bobbing hula doll stuck on the dashboard, so he always insists on dropping Marco off at work every day despite his boyfriend’s numerous protests.

 

“You know there’s a bus stop down the block, right? And that public transport is for the public? And that I’d probably get there faster than getting a ride from you during rush hour?”

 

“Buses are dangerous,” Jean grumbled, a vein twitching in his temple as a car in front of them cut him off. “Stick ups always happen on buses. This is safer.”

 

“I’d hardly call your driving _safe_ ,” Marco snorted, and Jean looked comically hurt.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with my driving! People are just slow!”

 

“Sure they are,” Marco snickered. “But really, you don’t have to. I’d rather you catch an extra hour or two of sleep instead of driving me to work.”

 

“It’s fine,” Jean muttered. “Just let me do this for you, okay?”

 

Marco looks at the expression on his face, sighs fondly, and settles back in the passenger seat with a smile. Between the two of them, everybody thinks that Marco would be the one to get up bright and early in the mornings, but it’s Jean who crawls out of their shared bed at 5 am on the dot, yawning and disoriented.

 

He gets up to drive down to the docks, where the freshest seafood ingredients are sold in the early hours of the day. Bertholdt and Reiner are his go-to guys; the two towering fishermen always seem intimidating to others but Bertholdt couldn’t hurt a fly and Reiner just liked to pretend to be tough. Plus, they always caught the biggest fish and cut him the best deals, and in exchange Jean always makes them his signature bacon-wrapped salmon with cranberry and apricot compote every time they dined at his restaurant.

 

When he gets back home at 8 am, laden with seafood in his trunk, Marco is up with a mug of coffee and the day’s newspaper in hand, waiting for him, as always.

 

+

 

When Eren Yeager’s head made contact with the table for the seventh time in a row, Marco supposed it was time to intervene.

 

“Hey, you okay, Eren?” he asked, putting his pen aside.

 

“I’m not okay,” Eren groaned, his voice slightly muffled on the desk. “I hate everything. I want to quit.”

 

“You say that every other day,” Armin said unsympathetically from his seat over. “That complaint stopped holding an validity ages ago.”

 

“I’m not lying,” Eren whined, clutching at his hair as Marco patted him on the back with a laugh. “Professor Levi is such a slave-driver. I don’t even know why I volunteered to TA for his classes; it’s eating up all my spare time!”

 

“At least you aren’t the only assistant,” Armin scoffed. “If Petra, Auruo, Erd and Gunter can handle it you can too.”

 

“You don’t know what it’s like to have a guy who doesn’t even come up to your chin shout at you in the middle of class. At least Professor Erwin is nice. And politics is an easy course, okay.”

 

“You take that back! Nobody wants to study history and the wars that happened a bazillion years ago, okay?”

 

“Clearly the one hundred and four people who wrote essays for this class does!”

 

“Guys, guys, take it easy,” Marco said pacifyingly. “Arguing about it won’t help.”

 

Eren raised his head and shot him a tired look. “Easy for you to say, Marco. You actually manage your time properly, and biology’s only labs.”

 

“I don’t fancy being in Professor Hanji’s classes, though,” Armin said with a shudder. “I heard about that escaped experiment— that’s some freaky stuff happening in those labs.”

 

“Ah, well, worse things have happened,” Marco chuckled, scratching at his neck. Armin and Eren blanched.

 

“Something worse than a blob of green slime that moves and consumes things?”

 

“It’s okay, most of the professor’s experiments can be held back with fire or dies upon decapitation! It’s perfectly safe!” Marco said brightly, and his fellow TA’s facepalmed.

 

+

 

Jean usually makes it to the restaurant at noon, when the kitchen staff would eat lunch together and discuss the night’s menu. The _L’arpenteru Romantique_ is a fancy, high-class restaurant resting on the outside of the tourist district, so they generally get a lot of customers, even during down season. Mikasa, the head chef, was sitting at the head of the table, half a dozen little plates of different sauces surrounding her. There was also a plate of vegetarian spring pasta with alfredo sauce and roasted asparagus, a lightly grilled chicken breast with parsley and a dish of homemade Turkish Delight. When she spots Jean walking in, she winds a couple of noodles up on a fork and stuck it out at him.

 

“Taste,” she said shortly, and he does so dutifully, taking a bite. The pasta was full of flavor, the sauce smooth and creamy on his tongue, with just a bit of spice from the asparagus. Taking another moment to chew and swallow, Jean hummed his approval before adding, “Just a little less sugar in the sauce, maybe. This is Christa’s recipe, isn’t it?”

 

Mikasa made a hmph-ing noise, which was the closest thing to a yes from the stern and serious woman. Jean had long learned to read his boss’ non-verbal gestures, being the sous chef and all.

 

“Jean is amazing!” Christa laughed, and it sounded like bells from a music box. “Less sugar, you say?”

 

“Tiny bit,” Jean grinned, pinching his index finger and thumb together, and Christa nodded, making a note in her notebook.

 

“I’ll remember that,” she said with a smile, and Jean returned it before quickly sitting down because Ymir, the waitress, looked ready to punch a hole in his face.

 

They ate and talked and sorted out ingredients in the back for the rest of the afternoon. They tried some of Connie’s mouthwatering pecan crusted dover sole fillets, sampled Sasha’s new sourdough Danish pastry dessert, and watched Annie gut a slab of meat bigger than she was with two razor sharp knives.

 

It was a lively affair— and one of the reasons why Jean really did love his job. He’d always been disagreeable and hotheaded, which made him difficult to get along with, but with these people he felt a sense of companionship. He didn’t know where that feeling came from, but it was a comforting one. The six years of working with them was proof enough that he finally found somewhere he belonged at last.

 

When Jean wandered into the alley for a smoke an hour before they opened, he took out his phone and texted Marco.

 

_J.K: hey_

It took a minute before his boyfriend replied.

 

_M.B: Hay is for horses. I’m in class._

_J.K: thought the prof didn’t allow phones in the lab? Being rebellious, are we?_

_M.B: We’re in the lecture hall today, silly. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered answering._

_J.K: mean_

_M.B: Aren’t you supposed to be working?_

_J.K: smoke break. We open at 6, remember?_

_M.B: Right. And I thought you said you were going to quit?_

_J.K: Aw, c’mon, it’s only one. I haven’t brought a new pack for ages_

_M.B: You better not come home smelling like smoke or you’re sleeping on the couch._

_J.K: you’ll miss my beautiful body_

_M.B: You wish, Kirschtein._

 

Jean chuckled fondly at their banter and flicked his cigarette aside, relishing in the clear evening air. It smelled like it might rain a little later, and he made a mental note to close the windows tonight.

 

_J.K: alright, I gotta get to it. talk to you later_

_M.B: okay._

_J.K: love you_

_M.B: I love you too._

 

+

 

Sometimes, Jean has nightmares.

 

It’s always the same one, one that’s he’s been having ever since he met Marco when they were six.

 

He dreamed of a crumbling city, hot ash, a blood-red evening sky and crowds of people moving around without a sense of direction or purpose. He’d wander with them, his chest tight and his legs like lead. He felt like an animal, twitchy and caged, jumping at the slightest hint of movement. His clothes were dirty and sodded with liquids he didn’t want to name.

 

The dream would progress and he’d find himself on a familiar street, with buildings half-beaten in and smoke rising from the ground. A cold sense of dread filled his heart as he walked on, stumbling over the uneven ground. The fear mounted, his throat contracted, and suddenly he was aware that something terrible was going to happen if he looked down.

 

Jean didn’t want to look down, but he did so anyway. His hands shook, his breath rattled in his chest and he knew what he would see was going to be horrifying, scarring, and wretched, but he couldn’t stop himself, he just _had_ to look—

 

—and that’s when Jean woke up, heart racing a mile a minute, in his and Marco’s bed, disoriented. He sat up, rubbing the fading visions of the ruined city from his eyes, feeling his t-shirt stick to his back from sweat.

 

Marco was not in the bed next to him.

 

For a moment Jean panicked, his brain conjuring a hundred awful thoughts at once, but then common sense smacked him over the head and reminded him that it was 10:30 am, and Marco was at school. Jean dropped him off two hours ago as per usual, and after he got home he’d sleep in until he had to get ready for work at noon.

 

Heaving himself out of the bed, Jean changed the sheets, dragged on a pair of washed out jeans, a comfortable sweater and packed his uniform into his duffle bag. Whenever the dreams surfaced, he did what he would always do: find Marco.

 

The drive was only slightly stressful, the parking meter only ate up an extra bill and the guy behind the visitor’s sign-in desk was only slightly disagreeable when Jean went into get a sticker. His nametag read Niles. Jean preferred Hannes more; the blonde man was much better company, and he was used to Jean coming up to visit Marco for seemingly no reason.

 

Trost University was a big place and filled with sleep-deprived students and irritable professors. The TA lounge was located in the south building, and if his memory served him right, Marco should be off on lunch break at the moment. Picking up his pace, Jean hurried through the building and up onto the second floor, nearly running into several people along the way. When he threw open the door to the break room, the dark-haired man was indeed having lunch with a small group of people.

 

“Jean!” Marco said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

 

“You’re not even supposed to be in this room,” the history TA said grumpily— his name was Eren, and he’s Mikasa’s stepbrother, if Jean remembered correctly— but their blond friend patted Eren’s arm lightly.

 

“He’s just here to see Marco, Eren, relax.”

 

“Jean? Are you okay?” Marco asked, noticing his face. Jean nodded wordlessly and jerked his head towards the hall, eyes slightly pleading. Marco understood at once and packed up his food, smiling apologetically to the others.

 

“I’ll be back in a moment, guys. Have a good lunch!”

 

“Alright,” the blond called, giving Jean a smile as well, and then Marco was tugging Jean out of the lounge, up a flight of stairs, and then through the doorway that opened up to the south building’s roof. The fresh air calmed him slightly, and the insistent shivers that had been running up his spine finally relented. Jean slumped against Marco’s side, sighing heavily.

 

“Sorry. I just— the dream again.”

 

“I know,” Marco said softly, pulling Jean into a hug and carding his fingers lightly through his hair.

 

“It’s so fucking stupid,” Jean cursed, burrowing his face deeper into Marco’s flannel shirt. It’s warm, and smells of honey soap.

 

“You can’t help what you dream, Jean. That’s why they’re dreams.”

 

“More like a nightmare. They terrify me. It’s too real.”

 

Marco frowned as he propped his chin onto Jean’s shoulder. “Is it getting worse?” he asked softly.

 

Jean was silent for a moment, staring that the flat, tiled ground of the roof. After a while, he simply nuzzles against Marco’s neck and answers, “No. I’ll be alright.”

 

+

 

“Hey, Jean, your boyfriend’s here tonight,” Ymir called as she power-walked into the kitchen, tacking up several new orders as she went. That distracts him momentarily, and he accidentally leaves the meat on the grill for a second too long.

 

“Shit, shit,” Jean muttered, grabbing a pair of tongs and turning it over quickly. “Marco's here?” he yelled back. The clock on the wall read ten minutes past eight; Marco probably finished up early at the library and bused his way over to the restaurant.

 

“Yeah, and his order’s all yours,” Ymir grinned, making a loop around the counter so that she could tuck the slip of white paper into his apron pocket. “Don’t disappoint now, loverboy.”

 

“As if,” Jean said, quick to defend his cooking skills, and the waitress laughed before flouncing over to Christa’s station. Checking the meat to make sure it wasn’t burnt, Jean fished out Marco’s order and read it.

 

 _Surprise me_ , it said, and Jean grinned.

 

“Oi, Connie, do me a favour, will you? Look after this while I go grab something from the fridge…”

 

Nine minutes later, Ymir returned to Marco’s table and set down upon it a giant plate of pici with summer squash and tarragon with a side of baked tomato bruschetta. The dark-haired man couldn’t help but feel his mouth water instantly; Jean had correctly guessed that he’d skipped lunch to finish his own research and had made an extra-filling dinner for him. Thanking Ymir, he grabbed the napkin, only to see a little note fall out on the side.

 

_Mikasa’s letting me off early tonight. Wanna stick around for dessert and then go home for a movie?_

 

Marco grinned widely, tucking the note into his pocket. Ymir was hovering nearby, clearly watching to see if he’d gotten the note, and Marco waved her over with a sheepish grin on his face.

 

“Um, could you do me a favour and tell Jean it’d be a great idea?”

 

Nodding, Ymir disappeared back into the kitchen, where the sous chef was now wrestling with a gigantic hunk of beef alongside Annie.

 

“Oi, Jean, your boyfriend said he’d love a romantic dinner date with you!”

 

“Jeez, way to broadcast it!” Jean hollered back as Connie laughed uproariously.

 

“How long have you two been dating, anyway?” Christa asked as she passed off a plate of pasta to Sasha.

 

“Uh, we started in high school, so that’ll be… eleven years?” Jean mused. “I’ve known him since we were kids, though.”

 

“ _Eleven years_?” Connie yelped. “That’s a really long time! Why haven’t you gotten a move on already?”

 

“Gotten a move on with what?” Jean asked, confused. It was, to everybody’s surprise, Annie who answered.

 

“Why haven’t you asked him to marry you yet?” the blond said quietly. “You’re happy with him, aren’t you?”

 

“Well, yeah, of course.”

 

“Then ask him,” Annie said, hacking off a slice of meat expertly. Her eyes were strangely serious when she turned to face him. “Don’t give yourself a chance to regret anything.”

 

There was something about her words that seemed to resonate in Jean’s mind, despite how cryptic it sounded, and he stared unblinkingly at Annie until Mikasa suddenly interrupted them.

 

“As interesting as it is to talk about Jean’s love life, we’ve got food to make. Get on it!”

 

Movement broke out at once, and Annie shrugged a shoulder before turning back to her workstation. “Just a thought,” she said to nobody in particular, and things fell back into its usual fast-paced environment.

 

Later that evening, when most of the rush hour crowd finally cleared out, Jean presented Marco with a plate of strawberries in bruleed marshmallow crème, much to his partner’s delight. As they ate together, he couldn’t help but think about Annie’s words.

 

_Don’t give yourself a chance to regret anything._

 

Jean hid a tiny smile, and took another bite of dessert.

 

+

 

When Marco was five, he got into an accident.

 

It had been the classic case of a basketball rolling onto the street, a child rushing after it, and then a truck that had been going much too fast in a residential area. Marco didn’t remember how it happened, but he did remember the months spent recovering afterwards.

 

He’d been clipped on his right side and sent flying. The entirety of his right leg had to be reconstructed because so many bones had been broken, which left a great deal of scarring on the otherwise pale, freckled skin. Marco had been extremely self-conscious of his leg despite Jean pointing out numerous times that it made no difference; he was still completely infatuated with the dark-haired man.

 

Jean was Marco’s first friend when they ended up in the same class a year later, despite the other kids teasing Marco about his limp. Jean always picked Marco to be on his team in gym class, regardless of what his other classmates said. After a lot of wheedling and puppy dog eyes, Jean also managed to convince Marco to learn how to ride a bike when they were nine, and that was perhaps the last time Marco ever doubted the capabilities of his right leg.

 

Rushing full speed down a hill hollering joyously with your best friend and the feeling of the wind through your hair tended to have that effect.

 

They decided on the same high school together, and that was when their differences became more pronounced. Marco was all about the sciences and math; he breezed through the labs and research projects and assignments with hardly any effort. Jean struggled to catch up on the best of days, which caused a lot of rifts between him and his parents and made the teenager cranky and sullen, even on his best days. Marco was the one who tutored him until his tests got passing grades, stayed over during exam week and crammed with Jean until he managed to scrape by yet another semester.

 

Then, Marco was the one who took a bite out of Jean’s caramel and apple cinnamon cookies and promptly said, “Forget science. You should be a chef.”

 

Jean was a stress baker, and considering how often his anxiety levels skyrocketed during high school, a lot of cooking and baking happened during their four years of education. He became somewhat well known for his talent at school, which made him extremely popular with the ladies and even the tough guys couldn’t find it in them to bully him after tasting the cranberry scones.

 

But it was Marco Jean took his newest creations to first, Marco who Jean consulted for an opinion with his recipes, and Marco he cooked for when the two of them were doing some last minute studying at the end of the year.

 

“You know, I think you’re on to something about this whole chef thing,” Jean admitted when they started looking into universities, and Marco couldn’t help but feel happy and scared.

 

There was no way their choices of education would allow them to cross paths.

 

In the end, Marco was accepted into Trost University in Cannes, France, which was half a day’s train ride away from their little countryside town. Jean had chosen to go to St. Maria’s School of Culinary Arts in England, which would be much further away.

 

The two weeks before Jean moved out Marco was the one who because highly disagreeable and moody, which was a rare sign that the boy truly was upset about splitting up with his best friend. So, Jean took it upon himself to do what he did best when it came to comforting others as well as himself: he cooked.

 

He showed up on Marco’s doorstep at eleven o’clock that evening with a giant tray of mini strawberry cream tarts.

 

“I can’t believe you’re baking instead of packing,” Marco said as he munched on a pastry. “You’re gonna end up in England dressed like a hobo because you forgot all your clothes.” The two of them were sitting on the roof, as usual, admiring the peaceful weather and staring up at the tiny dots of stars in the night sky. Jean shrugged.

 

“I’m going to be a poor starving artist soon. I figured I’d get used to looking the part.”

 

They ate for another moment in silence.

 

“Are you scared, Jean?” Marco asked softly, dusting his fingers off.

 

“Hah? Of course not. I’m the invincible chef. I can do anything.”

 

“Right. Whenever you brag like that’s it’s basically a red flag saying _Jean Kirschtein is scared enough to wet his pants_.”

 

“Oi! It’s not like that! Things are changing, but that doesn’t mean it has to be bad.”

 

“I know. But just— we won’t get to hang out anymore.”

 

“There are phones for a reason.”

 

“It’s not the same.”

 

“Get Skype then. I’ve been bugging you to set up an account since forever.”

 

“That’s not the point, Jean!” Marco groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It won’t be the same! Being in person is a lot different than a couple of calls and talking over an online messaging system—”

 

“Marco—”

 

“— and this is how people lose contact with each other, they get too wrapped up in work to notice everything slipping by them—”

 

“Marco.”

 

“— this happens to everybody, so we won’t be any different, and I really don’t want to lose this friendship, Jean, ‘cause you’re important to me, okay, and I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood friend—”

 

“Marco!”

 

“What!” Marco cried. “In case you haven’t noticed I was trying to deliver an emotional speech just now!”

 

Jean just silently reached over and tugged him into a kiss.

 

It was simple, nothing spectacular or terribly awful, but Jean had been a surprisingly good kisser and Marco’s lips were actually softer than imagined. There was a lingering taste of strawberries when they finally pulled apart, and Marco’s face was so red it could rival the fruit.

 

“Okay, before you freak the fuck out, that was a real one. A real kiss, I mean,” Jean said, suddenly frantic. “I— I came over with tarts and stuff and I kinda wanted to ask you a really important question but you just kept talking and talking so I had to do something about it. And well, that wasn’t exactly the way wanted to break the news to you, but I won’t take that back, alright?”

 

Marco stared, and Jean took a deep breath.

 

“I like you, okay? I’ve liked you for a long time. And I know I’m not the most level-headed guy or the smartest kid or the one with the most patience, since that’s usually you, but I just— you’re important to me too, alright? And this is real shitty timing, since we’re moving tomorrow and all, but I figured there’s no time like the present to pop the question,” Jean finished sheepishly, scratching his head.

 

Marco felt his heart pound, the corners of his mouth struggling to keep back a stupidly happy grin from breaking through, so he gathered up his courage and asked innocently, “And what kind of question were you going to ask?”

 

The downside to knowing each other for so long was that they could practically read each other like an open book, and Jean’s growing smile was proof that he already knew how his friend was going to reply.

 

“Marco, will you go out with me?”

 

“Yes, Jean, I think I will.”

 

+

 

“I expect you to ask us to cater for your wedding, you know.”

 

Jean nearly choked on his gulp of coffee when Mikasa popped up at his side from seemingly nowhere, arms crossed and poker-faced. It was the late afternoon, only two hours or so until they opened.

 

“Uh, what wedding?”

 

“Don’t be dumb,” his boss said with a roll of her eyes. “Unless that lump that’s been in your apron pocket for the past week hasn’t been a ring box after all, in which that case I’m going to fire you for indecency at work.”

 

“Of course it’s a ring box!” Jean yelped defensively, and unfortunately caught everybody’s attention at once.

 

“Did somebody say ring?”

 

“Jean! You did go and buy a ring!”

 

“Aw, you romantic sap!”

 

“Leave me alone,” Jean groaned, trying in vain to bury his face into his palms. “You guys are the worst.”

 

“You gotta show us,” Connie said excitedly. “C’mon now, we all know it was going to happen sooner or later!”

 

Huffing, Jean reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain, black velvet box and cracked it open, revealing a sleek silver band with several tiny sapphires studded in a pattern on the surface. There were a collective “ooooh” from the cooks.

 

“It’s so pretty!” Christa gushed.

 

“So smooth,” Sasha cooed. “And shiny!”

 

“What’s with the pattern of the sapphires?” Ymir asked curiously. Jean scratched his head.

 

“Ah, well, they’re the constellation of Draco, the dragon. It’s Marco’s favourite. And it rhymes with his name.”

 

“D’aww, look at you, all caring and thoughtful!” Connie teased, pinching Jean’s cheek.

 

“Oi, get off me, you brat!”

 

“So when’re you going to ask him?” Christa asked excitedly.

 

“I dunno. I’ve had this for a while now, and I just kidna carry it around in case the right situation pops up, but so far, nothing special’s come to mind.”

 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find the time,” Annie said with a shrug, and Jean pocketed his ring again. He hoped it’d be soon; the suspense was basically killing him.

 

+

 

Two days later, Connie suddenly burst out of Mikasa’s office, hollering Jean’s name with a note of panic in his voice.

 

“Jean! Jean! You need to see this!”

 

“What? I’ve got three lobsters on the grill here!” Jean yelled back, poking at the shiny red crustacean with a pair of tongs. Connie rushed over and yanked them out of his hand.

 

“You need to watch the news. There’s a fire at Trost University!”

 

It was as though the ground had fallen out from beneath him. Paling at an alarming rate, Jean stumbled across the kitchen towards Mikasa’s office in the back, where she usually had a small television on during the day. The noises in the kitchen was somewhat muted as Jean slammed the door behind him, palms sweaty, and watched as the news reporter delivered the evening news.

 

There had been an incident in the labs, and a fire had spread before anybody noticed. The faculty was up in flames, and firefighters were on the scene. Jean clutched at the edges of his desk, praying with all his might that it wouldn’t be the one Marco worked in—

 

“At the moment, we can confirm that it is the South Building on the Trost University campus grounds that is currently on fire,” the female reporter said in rapid French. “More on this developing story ten after the hour.”

 

That was the building Marco worked in.

 

Jean staggered out of the room, a foreign kind of terror that he only felt in his nightmares coursing through his veins. He nearly ran headlong into Mikasa, who was carrying a platter of steak.

 

“Mikasa! The place Marco’s working at is on fire!” Jean cried, almost grabbing his boss’ arms in pure desperation.

 

“What?”

 

“Marco’s university! There’s a fire! It’s on the news!”

 

“Jean, I need you to take a deep breath and calm down,” Mikasa said evenly, easily passing off the meat to a worried Sasha. “Now. Have you called him? Where’s your cell phone?”

 

“I— here,” Jean stammered, fumbling through his pockets for his mobile. With shaking fingers he scrolled through his recently dialed calls and found Marco’s number. He jabbed the call button and waited, fingers fisting in his apron as Mikasa watched him carefully. Everybody else was bustling around the kitchen, but Jean knew they were all listening in.

 

There was a beep. Voicemail.

 

“He’s not answering,” Jean said, his voice cracking. “Oh my god, what do I do, this is so bad, he has to be alright—”

 

“Jean,” Mikasa said warningly. “Calm down. What you’re going to do is hang up your apron, grab your car keys, and drive down to the university, okay? Be careful of the traffic, don’t speed, and find Marco. Everything’s going to be alright.”

 

“I— okay, okay,” Jean said, inhaling sharply. “You’re letting me go off?”

 

“We can manage for one night without our sous chef,” Mikasa said calmly. “I understand your concern. My stepbrother works at Trost too. If I didn’t know that he was at home for the evening I’d be rushing to get out of here as well. So go. Be careful.”

 

“I will,” Jean nodded, almost tearing his apron of in his haste. “I’ll go. T-thank you so much.”

 

Mikasa just nodded. The rest of the team looked on with encouraging smiles as well.

 

Jean raced out of the door and leapt into his car. He drove faster than he’d ever driven in his entire life.

 

+

 

It took him fifteen minutes to get to the campus, five minutes to run down to the labs, and thirteen minutes to find Marco sitting on one of the benches next to the blond kid he’d seen in the TA lounge before. Both of them had hideous orange blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Both of them were safe; Marco was safe.

 

Relief like he’d _never_ known before washed over him instantly.

 

“Marco!” Jean screamed, running down the pathway. “Marco!”

 

The dark-haired man jumped in shock, jaw dropping.

 

“Jean!” he cried, as his partner barreled into him with the force of a moving train. “What on earth are you doing here?!”

 

“The fire— on TV— I called you but you didn’t pick up— I didn’t— I couldn’t— _I need you_ —” Jean wailed, clutching at Marco’s shirt as he tried in vain to stop the mess of tears running down his face. There was a scent of smoke lingering upon the cotton, and Jean decided that he didn’t like it at all.

 

“Oh, Jean,” Marco sighed, hugging back just as tightly. “You worrisome, mothering, protective idiot. Don’t cry, I’m okay.”

 

“You fucking scared me. I am so entitled to cry.”

 

“I know, Jean, I know,” Marco murmured soothingly, carding his fingers through Jean’s short hair. “It’s okay, I’m here, I’m alive.”

 

And those words had the biggest impact upon him, because he just couldn’t imagine a world where Marco was gone, and only he would be left alive.

 

Body moving on autopilot, Jean reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the ring box. Untangling himself from Marco, he got unsteadily down onto one knee, and held out the little velvet box.

 

“… Jean?” Marco asked, staring. Marco’s blond friend was staring. A couple other people were staring too, but Jean wouldn’t let them dissuade him from his task now.

 

“I love you, Marco,” Jean said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “I’ve known you since forever and I’ve been in love with you since forever and I can’t possibly think of a world in which you don’t exist. I want to stay by your side and watch your grow old and make a fool of myself trying to make you happy. I want to wake up with you, take care of you, and spend my eternity with you. And before you say anything, yes, I’ve had this stupid ring with me for nearly a week now trying to figure out when the best time to propose is and yes, I’m quite aware that on a scale of one to ten the idea of proposing to you during a fire drill probably ranks somewhere along the lines of invading Russia in the winter, but I can’t help it. I just really, really want to ask—”

 

Jean took a breath, cheeks flushing, and Marco was already muffling elated giggles with his palm, clearly trying hard not to interrupt him with joyous laughter. Everybody was watching them now, and the blond kid was filming it on his phone. Jean opened the box, and held the ring up to his boyfriend.

 

“Marco, will you marry me?”

 

There were tears in Marco’s eyes as he nodded, frantically, and Jean swore he felt his heart soaring into the skies.

 

“Yes,” Marco choked out, clasping Jean’s hands and yanking his now fiancé to his feet. “Yes, Jean, I think I will.”

 

Jean’s response was to grab Marco and yank him into a mind-blowing kiss.

 

People were cheering around them, others were laughing and playfully catcalling, but Jean had nothing on his mind but the feeling of Marco’s arms around him, the gentle press of lips, and the warm, bubbly feeling of home.

 

Their life was good.

 

They were together at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t figure out if Hanji or Zoe was the first name so I cried a lot in despair. And the fact that I don’t know what Levi’s last name is. Erwin Smith is a gift from god.
> 
> On another note, my actual history TA just recently got engaged too. It’s the cutest thing ever.
> 
> Also, if you’re not aware of it, working in a high-class restaurant is basically like the military itself. Shit gets real in there, so I thought it’d be interesting for Jean to be reincarnated into a work setting like that. Poor guy just never catches a break.
> 
> I hoped you guys liked the unbearable amount of fluff and sappiness I just dumped upon you all. Thank you for taking the time to read!


End file.
